


To Mend a Broken Thing

by lucky_spike



Series: Armageddon and the Associated Entities [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Kintsugi, Scars, past character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23039923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: Inspired by the goodomensprompts blog ask from softiesongbird: "The angels have gold as a result of harm to their celestial forms, in the same line of thought as the art of kintsugi (essentially gluing ceramics back together with gold)"In which Aziraphale has Some Shit to level with, and takes his time. And learns about an interesting practice along the way.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Armageddon and the Associated Entities [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1530020
Comments: 14
Kudos: 135





	To Mend a Broken Thing

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who might be confused about events referenced at the beginning of this fic, it pretty much directly follows the events of [this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19770655/chapters/51264859) of my short-fic collection, in which Crowley and Aziraphale hang out during the bloody 14th century.

It’s called  _ kintsugi _ in Japan, the mending of broken things with gold. And the first time Aziraphale sees it, he cries. 

It’s the fifteenth century, and he’s just spent the past three decades with a demon - a demon he’s rather fond of, but a demon nonetheless - tracking down and burning books on demonic bindings. He chased the books as long as he could stand, until every pile they set alight made his eyes burn and the fires of Alexandria roar in his head, until he started jumping at shadows, expecting to see Gabriel or Michael over his shoulder, watching him watch over the demon. He chased the books until one day he woke up, looked down to Crowley, still asleep in his clothes, curled around their find from the prior day - their first in a while, because it seemed such books were so few, now - and realized he had to leave.

He didn’t say goodbye. They had been associates, united in a common goal for a while, and nothing more. He left, and he left his flint and tinderbox behind. 

He’d prayed, and found a peace in his soul when he thought of Japan. There was no formal message, no orders to go, just an odd feeling of calm. So he went.

He sees  _ kintsugi _ for the first time at a tea ceremony, a couple of years after his arrival. He’s made friends with the locals, immersed himself among them and learned their language, their names, and their habits. He’s become a familiar face, and so his neighbor invites him to a ceremony, a bit informal as suits Haruki’s personality, although there are still all the trappings of formality. But he and Haruki talk quietly throughout, seated in the tea house, and when Aziraphale notices a thread of gold snaking through the otherwise-pristine finish of his cup, he asks about it.

“It’s kintsugi,” Haruki explains. “When something breaks, rather than discard it, you mend it with something attractive - gold, this time, you see? Well, gold lacquer. Because it tells the story of the cup.” He shrugs. “Nothing is perfect, and we all have our journeys. Even cups.” He grins into his own cup, likewise mended with a silver plug where a chip had once been. “Especially cups, when I keep dropping them, unfortunately.”

“Ha.” Aziraphale forces a laugh, and stares at his cup. “Yes. Rather.”

He doesn’t leave early - he likes Haruki, and it wouldn’t do to be impolite - but as soon as it’s socially acceptable to leave he bolts, changing back into his usual garb and beelining through the village until he’s shuttered away in his own house, leaned against the door and taking long, slow breaths that are physiologically unnecessary but right now seem  _ very _ emotionally necessary indeed.

We all have our journeys. Too true.

After a while, he pads to the hearth and stokes the fire, prodding the flames into something suitable to boil some water for rather more tea, this time without the ceremony. He takes the kettle outside and fills it, carries it back in, and hangs it up to boil.

And then he dithers. He paces back and forth, wrings his hands, and stares at the fire. He glares at the kettle for not boiling fast enough and then, without really realizing why he does it, he sits down, and pulls up the hem of his kosode until he can see his thigh.

The right one, specifically. The one with a puckered, golden scar about as wide as his hand and as long as his femur, which he has always avoided looking at, always avoided thinking about, but suddenly, has found he has a name for.

Kintsugi. The mending of broken things with gold, because no one is perfect and the journey is as much a part of them as anything.

That is when he starts to cry. The kettle is finally boiling, and he doesn’t care, because he is an angel, and he is supposed to be perfect, and ever since the War he hasn’t been. Never was, really, when he thinks about it. Even before the War, before he’d given his sword away, there were traces of gold on his belly, his arms, his legs, places where his corporation was struggling to resemble a soldier but losing out to his desire to be something else. He hadn’t been sure, then,  _ what _ else. He still isn’t sure now, but, he thinks, he is closer. In his house in rural Japan, surrounded by books of poetry and philosophy, with a tea kettle boiling on the fire, and a little village of friendly humans around him, he is closer.

He traces the scar on his leg. Part of the journey. It’s a sharp, ugly thing, even shining in gold, but the edges are softened by little tendrils of gold stretching out around it, making room in a soldier’s corporation for the person in residence, who has grown, and changed, and traveled until he is a soldier no longer.

He’s not sure what kind of angel he is, anymore. He supposes he’s the kind who trusts a bit too much, the kind who misses the traitor’s strike, who loses track of apples, who gives away his sword, who bungles blessings and helps demons. Who runs to a village in Japan, because he thinks maybe there he can find peace, or at least some humans who can remind him why he’s here in the first place. He’s an angel who likes tea, and likes books, and likes humans, and likes good  _ people _ , no matter what shape they come in. Even if it’s demon-shaped.

Three decades of helping Crowley flash past in his head in the time it takes for him to trace his scar one more time, and when he finishes he is slumped over his own leg, shoulders slouched and loose, wings out - when had he let those out? - and splayed over the bed, tear-tracks on his cheeks and, still, a little smile on his lips. 

Kintsugi. What a wonderful idea. And how fortunate - yes, really,  _ yes _ \- that angels like Michael and Gabriel hadn’t recognized it as a thing of healing and growth, of beauty coming out of tragedy, and had given him the Eastern Gate assignment out of pity. Watch the gate you poor, broken Principality, the subtext had said, and at the time Aziraphale had limped off to the gate with a vague feeling of failure, although he’d done nothing but what he’d been told. 

The wound had healed gold. And then he’d met Crowley, and landed on Earth permanently. Among humans, and all their ideas. Their books and their food and their kintsugi, threading a line between the good and the bad, the broken and the whole, and making it bright and beautiful.

The kettle is still whistling. Aziraphale looks up, as if startled, and he is, a bit, out of his train of thought. He glances back down to the scar once more, and then stands up, wings tucked against his back, his kosode falling into place with gravity’s help. When he walks to the kettle with his usual clipped, fastidious gait, but he’s surprised to find that the tension he’s been carrying in his back and shoulders since his arrival in the village is … gone. He bends over the kettle, lifts it from its hook and pours a bit into the teapot and his cup, warming them, before he completely fills the pot and spoons in some leaves. While he waits for the tea to steep, he carries the pot not to the bed but to his favorite chair, and he sits down, legs crossed, while he studies it. 

There is no kintsugi there - just a plain teapot, whole and unmarked. Well, there’s a chip out of the lid, but it’s hardly worth mentioning. But even then, inside the pot, there is change happening. The added things are seeping in to the water around them, and what comes out will be rich and beautiful and warm and enjoyable. It will help him relax. That is out of sight, though: kintsugi is a visible reminder, but change happens all the time, even when you don’t notice it.

Outside of his house, village life rumbles by. Aziraphale pours himself a cup of tea, and murmurs a blessing over it - though he blesses much more than just the tea, reaching out his essence to sweep over the village, and Haruki, and all of the other humans here - before taking a grateful sip. He knows his time here is limited now, the same way he knew where to settle years ago. Not soon, oh no, but there is somewhere else he’d like to be. Somewhere that’s got into his soul, and though he did well with the break, he’s ready to go back. Somewhere that’s steeped into the person he’s become.

Someone, too. A thread of red and gold, snaking through the pieces of his life.

Aziraphale takes a sip, and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> [Original tumblr link here](https://luckyspike.tumblr.com/post/190484992684/the-angels-have-gold-as-a-result-of-harm-to-their)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Comments are always tremendously appreciated. :)


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